Daddy’s filthy fingers slide down across her bare flesh, caressing her neck with a rare sensitivity. They’re hidden behind the stone in the shadows. I only catch glimpses of their movement as I peer at them from the archway.

He was clear in his instruction though I couldn’t imagine who would find us at this time of night. I obey.

We had visited her a number of times over the last month. Daddy said he wanted to finish his work. She still had more to learn.

She was the last of them. The last on his list. The last that had escaped the fires of the convent.

We thought they had all burned but Daddy soon found out a few survived. For weeks we hunted them. For weeks a dark cloud has been over my Daddy. A burden that had plagued his dreams. The “hidden girls” he called them.

A fox rustles in the distance and makes me jump with a start. It is hard to stay focused with the biting cold.

The cold doesn’t seem to stop Daddy. White plumes of steam rise up from his bare back. Illuminated by the moonlight he seems like a painting. A great beast in the wild taking down his prey. Except he’s not hard with her. Gently he places her on the grass and stretches out her arms.

“I told you I will find you.” Daddy growls as he unbuckles his belt. “I told you there was no way to hide from me.”

She doesn’t put up a fight like she did before. She’s learning.

An uncomfortable feeling swells inside. I don’t want her to learn. I don’t want her to be a good girl. I’m Daddy’s good girl. Me.

Maybe he gave her special medicine, I hope silently.

Daddy continues on, unaware of my discomfort. He parts her dress and leans in close. I hear him slide and thrust. The rustle of cloth in a tight fist. The breaths in rhythm with Daddy’s hips.

The rhythm quickens and forms like music in my mind. I know my Daddy. I know his focus. He moves with purpose, pounding deep inside her.

I know my Daddy. I know his rhythm. I know how he feels. I imagine his hard cock, swollen and hard, pounding deep inside me, dry from hours play time. I imagine his hands, gripped tight around my neck to keep me still. To keep me safe.

She takes it, even as his movement builds to the thudding of his hard fists on soft skin. She doesn’t cry out. I can’t hear her pain.

Daddy likes it when I touch myself so I do. I tell myself it’s ok. He wants me to. I feel shame welling up inside. Not shamed by Daddy but myself. I don’t find the girl attractive. I almost find it disgusting. That turns me on. I feel a wetness gush over my frozen cold fingers.

I dig my fingers deep into my flesh as I watch Daddy striker harder and harder. My fingers instinctively follow his rhythm. I mimic my Daddy and imagine his hot body against mine. I imagine his fists on my skin. The pleasing crunch of bone and displaced joints.

My breath quickens creating a fog of white steam. I peer through the haze at Daddy and that girl. I watch as he grips her face and takes her harder. I imagine my Daddy treats and bring myself to climax as he lets out a roar of pleasure.

Stooped in the stone arch I begin to shiver. Wrapping my fur about my neck I step back into the darkness off the church archway to avoid the chill.

Daddy climbs up from off the girl and dresses himself. He moves with efficiency that comes with practice. Scooping her up in his arms he turns and lays her back in her tomb.

“Blade,” Daddy calls me over. “Take that side.” His instruction simple. Together we slide the lid back over her body. I try not to look at her. I try not to see the milky white eyes and the blue necrotic skin. I try to push out her image from mind as we enclose her back into darkness.